the man with stars in his eyes
by justsomeoneudunno
Summary: What if Jacob does not come home after a ceasefire gone terribly wrong?


I clutched my head. Lights around me seemed to become brighter. Everyone talked around me, yet all I hear is my own breathing. I listened for other things to focus on.

"Are you okay?" I heard from across the table. Charles furrowed his brows.

I slowed my breathing, tried to focus on speaking.

"Yeah," I said, setting down my cup of coffee on my desk. "Yeah, I'm fine."

I choked on the words I wanted to say. I cleared my throat to attempt clearing my own mind, and perhaps I could phrase my thoughts right.

A clear vision stayed in my head: a man who caught the stars in his eyes now had the light fading from his face. I saw blood flowing underneath his fingers, its warm tendrils bouncing against the cold pavement, as if the red flush of his bouncy cheeks flowed out of his face. I remembered it clearly.

"What do you think of Jake?" Yes, I would never shut up about him, like how he never shuts up.

I asked because I wanted to get rid of that image that is scarred into the back of my mind. And maybe, I could remember the overshadowed memory of this once lively (and alive) man.

"I remember his smile," Charles giggled. "So cute."

I remembered his smile too—his last smile. The smile that took his last breath. Jake smiled when he tried to make me smile for one last time, fingers wiping the tears that rolled down my face.

"Yeah..." I nodded, memories of his lips that always curved into mischievous smiles brought a smile to my own. "Yeah, he always smiles..."

I remembered the times he cried, the ever-so rare moments when tears filled his eyes instead of his usual wonder and young curiosity.

"You've seen him cry before, right?" I said, chuckling. "Rare moments, I may say."

I said rare moments because this man never fails to amuse other people with his humor and acting skills. It was his way to draw out a laugh from me during stressful times.

It was clear, again, how I thought he was pranking me during one of the worst times of my life.

He lied there, underneath debris that may have fallen during the massacre. Blood pooled around him as I stood there, mocking him. He reached out with bloody hands, the blood looking too bright and almost pink to be considered real blood. He reached out for help, the agony in trying to speak with blood-filled lungs evident in his voice.

And I stood there, mocking him, telling him to stop with the jokes.

If only it were a joke...

"He always had something mischievous under his sleeves..." I said. Charles nodded.

And it was clear how I threw myself to the ground when Jake coughed out blood and shakily breathed whenever he clutches his stomach, when I realized that this was indeed not some sick prank.

It rained bullets. The debris shielded us.

_Take shelter. It's not safe here,_ he said after he told me to call an ambulance.

The ceasefire did not end peacefully. It led to bloodshed, and Jake was one of the poor people that fell victim to the rain of bullets. And I was one of the lucky yet unlucky bereaved.

I shushed him, pushing some of the debris off of him so I could carry him to the side. It was one of the many times I had to carry him while he was injured. I would have been used to it by now: his blood on my hands.

But I haven't.

"I mean he always had accidents," I said, worried now that I thought about it. "Going home with gashes on his cheeks, arms, or knees."

I rubbed my hands together to warm my numbing fingers, feeling a small welt on my palms. It was clear that the debris I tried to get off him left cuts on my own palms, but it was nothing compared to the gunshot wound on his torso.

"Yeah, reckless boy," I giggled to myself. "Refuses to let me clean his cuts."

He kept telling me to go away, that it was dangerous where we were. He may have been the reckless one, but I was also stubborn. The cut on my palms bled out a darker red of their own. I realized his blood was a bright red because the bullet hit an artery, maybe hit vital organs. That was a critical hit.

My bloodied hands stained his already bloody shirt as I pulled him out of the debris. He grunted, out of pain and out of being freed from the debris.

He rambled, mumbled, whispered into my ear because his voice was a knife in his throat. He kept mumbling that I would get hurt if I stayed with him. I furrowed my brow, asking him to keep quiet while I tried cleaning his wounds.

"I mean, he can be quite annoying sometimes." I still remember the days when I stood beside him, with his endless rants circling my head as they pass in and out of my ears. I figured he would never become quiet around me because he trusted me with the many stories he told.

I chuckled again, "But it's just 'cause he really cares about you."

I probably annoyed him as well as I tried to clean his wounds, when I stayed with him even when he told me countless times that I shouldn't. I decided carrying him out of here may lead us with no cover. We were alone outside this falling warehouse, and other people have fled the scene.

I remembered his stuffy eyes widening when more tears rolled down my cheeks. It was like a waterfall streaming down into the red lake.

I remembered yelling, _I'm not leaving you here!_

I remembered he said with a broken voice—no longer whispering, _I don't want to see you like this._

He made sure I heard it loud and clear that I should leave so he wouldn't see my miserable state. I looked pathetic: tears and sweat on my face, blood on my arms, and small debris caught in the nest of my hair.

"One day," Charles spoke up. I was so grateful he stayed with me as I rambled. That even when I didn't seem to pay him attention, he paid attention to me. He said, "We'll see him again."

I remembered the last time I saw Jake: a man who caught the stars in his eyes now had the light fading from his face, the blood flowing out of him like tendrils leaving the flush of his warm cheeks onto the cold of the pavement. His chin shook as he begged me to leave.

He kept pleading, brows furrowing up as the pain in his stomach went back to him. _You don't want to see me like this too,_ he said .

We mirrored each others' image: the miserable, bloody, crying, and pathetic image. He was in pain just as I was in pain.

The agony in his wound blasting through his lungs as he yelled, _It hurts, Ames! It hurts!_

He clutched his stomach again, wailing like the child he used to be. His other hand punched the cold pavement, splashing the pool of blood.

It hurt seeing him hurt. It made me cry seeing him cry. It stung my eyes seeing his puffy eyes. But the wound on my hands felt numb compared to his ragged cries.

I knew he was in pain. I knew. I know. I realized I should be the one trying to calm him down. I spoke to him in a hushed tone, smiling against the tears that welled on my lips. I tried to assure him it was okay. I tried to assure him that help was on the way.

Cold fingers met my warm tears. He wiped away the tears on my face. My shaky hands held his hands against my face as I wiped his own red tears.

He smiled again, the tears on his own face never ceasing, _Never seen you cry for me._

His last breath was an attempt to make me smile for one last time.

I remember looking at his eyes, his tears like glass, his pupils like the dark sky. I remember looking at his eyes and seeing the stars of that night. His hand went limp against mine.

"Yeah," I smiled at Charles, pulling out a small photo of Jake out of my wallet. "We will."

I see Jake everyday, in pictures, in my dreams, in the memories of little moments when he stayed by my side.

I should be telling his story, the story of the man who caught the stars in his eyes. The man who never ceased to stop speaking up even when the people around him did not agree. The man who died fighting for what he believes is right.

Yes, I see him everyday, in the brightest of stars that shine in the darkest of nights.


End file.
